The Mystery of Mercy Close

by Marian Keyes

  It’s a load of shit, speed limits. They were just invented by the guards because they love going out with their favourite toy, the speed-trap gun, and hiding round corners with it, especially early in the morning, and snaring the unlucky motorist who is savouring a very atypical opportunity to embrace the open road. It’s like a game to the guards; they play it instead of golf. They have a league to see who ‘gets’ the most people. They have weekly leader boards up in the staff room and the winner gets a keg of Smithwicks. Then once a month they all go on the piss with the fine money. They take a big envelope of it and put it behind the bar and say to the barman, ‘Keep bringing pints until it’s all gone.’ I know this for a fact.

  Well, maybe not an actual fact, but I know it. Everyone knows it.

  An unfamiliar car was parked outside my parents’ house. Some low-carbon-emission thing. That in itself should have been a clue to the identity of the visitor.

  Mum was opening the front door before I’d even got my key out of my bag. Her face was strange. She looked like she’d seen a vision and wasn’t coping well with it. As if the Virgin Mary had mooned at her.

  She took me by the arm and led me into the house.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s in there.’ She urged me towards the sitting room, the ‘good’ room, but hung back herself. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

  It wasn’t like her to miss a moment of drama.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘My system isn’t able for it. I’m afraid I might have a stroke. Your father has had to go back to bed. His blood pressure has gone sky-high. We’ve both taken a beta blocker.’

  ‘Well … okay.’

  I pushed open the door and walked into the room. Sitting in a flowery upholstered armchair and drinking tea out of one of Mum’s good cups was … not Wayne.

  It was Docker.

  One of the most famous, most handsome, most charismatic men on the planet. It was so incongruous, so unexpected, so surreal, that my body considered fainting but knew that that wasn’t dramatic enough. I was suddenly aware of every cell I had, every single little ball of energy, spinning and racing about wildly. Forgive my appalling crudeness, but for a terrifying few moments I was in danger of losing control of my normally iron-clad bowels.

  ‘Helen? Helen Walsh?’ He was on his feet, his radiant aura pouring out around him into the room. He extended his hand. ‘I’m Docker.’

  ‘I know,’ I said faintly, looking up into his suntanned, extremely famous face.

  ‘Sorry to arrive in on top of you like this, but your email was forwarded to me and I was in the area. I was in the UK –’

  ‘I know. It was on the news.’

  ‘And a mate was flying back to Dublin, so I hitched a ride with him.’

  That was the most loaded sentence I’d ever heard in my life. Docker’s ‘mate’ was obviously Bono and clearly there were private planes involved.

  ‘I feel a bit –’

  ‘Yes, come and sit down.’ He guided me to the couch.

  ‘Will you sit beside me?’ I asked. ‘Just so I can say I sat on the same couch as Docker?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, with sudden fierce sincerity. ‘It must be dreadful for you, with people going into shock all around you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It passes after a while. They get used to me.’

  ‘How did you know where I live?’

  ‘I asked around.’

  ‘Did you?’ Simple as that. God, what must it be like to be that connected?

  ‘So where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Wayne? I don’t know. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Wayne in a long time. Years. I haven’t even spoken to him.’

  ‘But you still send him five thousand dollars every May.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. From your company. A standing order. For the chorus of “Windmill Girl”.’

  He stared at me. ‘I’d forgotten about that. But you’re right.’

  I stared back at him. What would it be like to be so rich that you wouldn’t even notice five thousand dollars going out of your bank account?

  ‘And … if you don’t know where Wayne is, why are you here? And why are you here so early?’

  ‘Is it early?’

  ‘Ah … yes. It’s seven thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Sorry. Right, I get you. But I was up all night and maybe I’m still on Syrian time … you know how it is …’

  ‘Not at all.’ I gazed at him in earnest admiration. These international types. ‘But if you don’t know where Wayne is, why are you here?’

  ‘I want to help. Wayne was very good to me. I owe him. I’ve always felt a bit, you know … Things worked out so well for me.’

  It was true what he said. ‘You’ve come a long way from white suits and synchronized dancing.’

  ‘But it’ll always be a part of me.’

  ‘I know you have to say that,’ I said. ‘But do you really mean it?’

  He seemed taken aback. ‘Well … it was all so long ago. But it was great fun. The odd night, like maybe once a year, I dream about it, the singing and dancing, all the old routines. Life was so simple then.’

  I gave him a heavy-lidded, euphoric smile. I seemed to have gone into a strange, elated state. Clearly, the shock.

  ‘The first concert is tonight,’ I said. ‘The other three lads need the money badly. If Wayne doesn’t show, the whole comeback thing is a no go. So if you know anything, if you’re protecting Wayne in any way, now would be a good time to give him up.’

  ‘I honestly haven’t a notion where he is,’ he said. ‘I really haven’t spoken to him, to any of the Laddz, in over ten years. But Helen, I’m giving you my private mobile number.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was a bit deflated. I wasn’t thick. I knew the number he was giving me was just a fake ‘private’ number, one that was given to thousands and thousands. Docker himself would never answer it, just one of his minions.

  ‘No, really,’ he said, when he clocked my attitude. ‘This really is my private phone number, not just the one I give to most people.’

  He made me input it into my phone, then got me to ring it. Right enough, the pocket at the front of his T-shirt began to ring. He fished his phone out and answered, ‘Hello, Helen.’ He gave me one of the devastating smiles he was famous for and sweat broke out on my forehead. This was just all way too strange.

  ‘See,’ Docker said. ‘I am for real.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I have Docker’s private phone number.’

  ‘And I have your number too,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We have each other’s number.’ As if it was an exchange of equals.

  ‘So,’ he said, his body language indicating that my audience with him was coming to an end. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help Wayne, just call me and I’ll be there in a heartbeat.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’ I asked. ‘Going back to LA?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Spending the afternoon in Dublin with some friends then getting a flight in the morning to LA. In the meantime, if I get wind of anything about Wayne, I’ll be straight on to you.’

  ‘Docker,’ I asked, ‘are you a good man?’

  ‘What?’ He seemed startled.

  ‘Are you a good man, Docker? I know you do lots of good works. But is that just you and your famous mates flying round the world, going to exotic places and having people show you the love? Or would you really put yourself out for someone?’

  ‘I am a good man. I really would put myself out for someone.’ Then he laughed. ‘Well, what else would I say?’

  ‘It’s a gift being able to help someone, isn’t it, Docker?’

  His attitude suddenly switched to wary. He was wondering if I was setting him up. He was right.

  ‘It is,’ he said with some resignation, ‘a gift.’

  ‘You ge
t more than you give, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Right.’ Said wryly.

  ‘Grand. Now that we have that straight, there’s something you need to do. You need to go to Leitrim.’

  ‘… okay.’

  ‘Cancel your afternoon with friends in Dublin and ring this number. It belongs to a man called Terry O’Dowd. He fixed your door for next to nothing and I promised him that if I was ever talking to you I’d ask you to visit him and his fellow Leitrim people.’

  ‘… okay.’

  ‘Nothing fancy, just tea and sandwiches in your house and an open invitation. You don’t have to go to the ends of the earth to help people, Docker. Morale is very low in this poor country at the moment, people aren’t having it easy, and if you went to Leitrim you’d make their year. You’d really …’ I didn’t intend to sound sarcastic, I really didn’t. ‘You’d really make a difference.’

  68

  Mum tiptoed downstairs. ‘Is he gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it real? Did it really happen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was one of the worst experiences of my entire life. I’ll never be the same again.’

  ‘Me either. I think I’ll have a lie-down.’

  Feeling very strange, I slowly climbed the stairs and crawled into bed, still in my clothes. I’d somehow kill time until ten o’clock, when ‘the office’ that Wayne had rung the morning he’d disappeared, would open. And if, as I suspected, it turned out to be a phone company, I’d ring Jay Parker and get him to issue a press release cancelling all the gigs.

  I closed my eyes and entered some sort of peculiar suspended state for a couple of hours. Then, at about five to ten, I began to stir myself.

  Slowly I sat up and put my feet on the floor. I decided that before I did anything, I’d take my tablet. I took the foil card out of the zipped inner pocket in my handbag, where I kept it for safety and easy access, and I was so grateful for it, I practically kissed it. I thought of the Cymbalta in Wayne’s bedside drawer and the Stilnoct in his bathroom cabinet and the way he’d just casually swanned off wherever he’d casually swanned off to, leaving them behind.

  At the moment I couldn’t go anywhere without having my medication with me – the thought of being without it was terrifying.

  And, just like that, I had one of my rare but dazzling moments of brilliance: I knew where Wayne Diffney was.

  I rang Artie. ‘I need a favour from you,’ I said.

  Then I made another call and Docker answered after four rings. ‘Helen?’

  There was an awful racket going on. I could hardly hear him. ‘Docker? God, what’s the noise? Where are you?’

  ‘At the moment I’m above Roscommon. I’m in a chopper. It’ll be at the house in Leitrim in about fifteen minutes.’

  A chopper? But this couldn’t be more perfect.

  ‘I spoke to your friend Terry O’Dowd,’ he yelled, trying to be heard above the mechanical din. ‘Lovely man. It’s all arranged. The local hotel are loaning me three hundred cups and saucers and a couple of tea urns. Terry’s sorting out the sandwiches and cakes – he knows someone. His wife and her pals are already in the house, doing a dust and hoover. The invitation has been announced on the local radio station.’

  That was all good to hear. But things were actually about to get better for Docker, the altruism addict. ‘Listen, Docker, I’ve something fantastic to tell you.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Even with all the clatter that was going on, I could hear the mild fear in his voice.

  ‘Today you’re going to get a second chance to make a difference.’

  ‘Oh … in what way?’

  I had to shout my explanation and instructions, but Docker heard and understood every word.

  Then I forwarded Wayne’s phone records to Walter Wolcott, because it didn’t matter any more.

  69

  Everyone said it looked like a hotel, but it didn’t. It looked like a hospital. A nice one, I grant you, but it was still definitely a hospital. There were actual windows admitting actual daylight but the beds were definitely hospital beds, narrow and height-adjustable, with metal bars for headboards. And there was no disguising the function of the awful swishy curtains that divided the beds: to give you privacy for when the doctor came in and examined your bottom.

  St Teresa’s Hospital had some wards where the doors were locked and where it was a high-security, key-jingling affair to be let in or out, but to get to Blossom ward, where I was going, you simply took the lift to the third floor and walked straight in.

  When the lift doors opened, a long corridor made of very nice wood – probably walnut – led up to the nurses’ station. Bedrooms opened off the corridor, each one housing two beds. Full of horrible curiosity I stared into each room I passed. Some were empty and bright and the beds were neatly made. Some had the curtains closed, and hunched deadened forms lay under blue hospital blankets, their backs towards the door.

  I walked along, swinging my bag, trying to look casual. I checked out everyone I passed but no one paid any attention to me. I could be any old visitor.

  I reached the nurses’ station. Beautiful, it was, with its curved wood desk, like a reception desk at a boutique hotel. I kept going, past the open-plan seating area, past the kitchen, past the smoking room and into the television lounge.

  There was a man in there. He was alone, sitting motionless in front of a chess board. I paused in the doorway and he looked up, suddenly wary.

  I spoke. ‘Hello, Wayne.’

  70

  He jumped to his feet. ‘What?’ he asked. He sounded panicked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. Stay calm. Don’t call the nurses, just give me a second.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Helen. I’m no one. I’m not important.’

  ‘John Joseph? Jay?’

  ‘Listen –’

  ‘I’m not coming back. I’m not doing those gigs, I’m not –’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. I was never here; I never saw you.’

  ‘So, what –’

  ‘You need to make one phone call. In fact I’ll call the number for you.’

  ‘I’m not talking to anyone.’ He gestured wildly, at the room around him, at his baggy clothing, at his shaven head. ‘I’m in hospital. I’m suicidal. Look at me!’

  ‘Wayne, you have to do this. Someone else is looking for you. He’s got your phone records and it’s only a matter of time before he finds out that you’re here. He won’t care that you’re not well. He’ll tell John Joseph where you are and John Joseph is desperate. Right now he’d do anything. He’d bundle you into a laundry basket and smuggle you out via some handy chute if he had to. One way or another, you’d be on that stage, wearing your white suit and doing those old routines, and you’d be putting your heart and soul into them because John Joseph would have someone standing in the wings with a gun trained on you.’

  Maybe I was over-dramatizing things. And maybe I wasn’t.

  Wayne stared at me in silence. He looked like he was about to cry.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. I felt like I was going to cry myself.

  ‘Okay. What do I have to do?’

  I pulled out my mobile and hit a number. I waited until it was answered. ‘Here’s Wayne for you,’ I said.

  I gave my phone to Wayne and after a short conversation he handed it back to me.

  ‘All sorted?’ I asked.

  ‘All sorted.’

  ‘I just need you to sign something saying that it’s okay with you.’

  He took a quick look through the simple contract Artie had drawn up for me and signed it.

  ‘Before I go,’ I said. ‘Would you mind just confirming a couple of details? No one will know. Not even my mother. It’s just a matter of personal pride.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘You met Zeezah in Istanbul? The pair of you fell in love and Birdie found out
–’

  He groaned. ‘I hurt her really bad. She didn’t deserve any of that –’

  ‘Not to worry,’ I said quickly. I didn’t want to lose him in a morass of guilt. ‘Moving on. John Joseph meets Zeezah and steals her. He decides he’ll be the one to produce her and the one to marry her. And she’s so young and, er …’ How to hint at appalling shallowness? ‘… so, er, young, that she decides John Joseph would be a better bet than you. So they get married and he imports her to Ireland. But she won’t leave you alone? Even on her honeymoon she is telling you she’s made a terrible mistake in marrying John Joseph? To the point where you fly to Rome? But she stays with John Joseph. Back in Ireland, the pair of you keep seeing each other. You’re a decent soul from the looks of things. It doesn’t sit well with you, the deceit. You’re spending every day trying to rehearse with John Joseph and it’s all getting to you – the guilt, the anger – and you’re prone to depression anyway? How am I doing?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Then you find out that Zeezah is pregnant and there’s every chance that you’re the father, and maybe it brings back that horrible time when your wife got pregnant and it turned out that Shocko O’Shaughnessy was the dad? You’re very … distressed. To use your own word, you’re suicidal. So on Thursday morning you ring your doctor, your …’ I coughed discreetly, because I didn’t want to imply that he was mad; after all I was far from sane myself. ‘… your, ah, psychiatrist, and he suggests you’d better come here, and even though beds in this place are like parking spaces on Christmas Eve, he says they’ll pull out all the stops to get you in straight away, that someone will ring you back as soon as they have good news. You get the call, they send their driver to pick you up – Digby, is it Digby?’